


i can go anywhere (just not home)

by gracedbybattle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clone Trooper Inhibitor Chips (Star Wars), Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mind Control, Post-Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracedbybattle/pseuds/gracedbybattle
Summary: CC-2224 doesn’t know the man who appears in his dream, but that doesn’t stop him from showing up. And the more he dreams, the worse the headaches become.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 205





	i can go anywhere (just not home)

There’s a man in CC-2224’s room. The same one as yesterday and the night before. Slight in stature, similar height, with a red beard and blue-grey eyes. His eyes are always sad. CC-2224 doesn’t know why and he doesn’t know why it bothers him. 

‘24’s quarters appear the same in his mind as they look in reality, cold grey walls and impersonal Imperial issued furniture. He doesn’t know why the dreams have become so frequent, almost like something is wrong in his mind, but they’ve returned without fail for the past three nights. 

And the ghost with them.

“Who are you?” he asks warily. He hadn’t thought to address the man before, talking to ghosts cannot be a sign of mental stability, but if he’s going to keep showing up, he would like to know why. 

The man’s face cracks at that, just a bit before it smooths over with forced practice. There’s a deep pain in their eyes, one that CC-2224 doesn’t understand. His eyes track ‘24 carefully, always keeping his distance. But there’s something tense in his frame, like he’s holding himself back. Like he wants to cross the room. His mouth is tight, holding back words. When he speaks, it's carefully and with a distinct Core world accent that ‘24 recognizes but can’t place. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“I don’t know you,” ‘24 says back plainly. He feels tense, skin prickling with something uncomfortable. Like there’s a sniper at his back, like there’s something he’s missed. His fingers itch for a blaster. 

The man smiles at him and there’s grief there, but ‘24 doesn’t know why. 

“You do,” he promises, soft. “You just have to remember.”

—

CC-2224 doesn’t miss anything. He’s a principled, tactical mastermind; one of the highest ranking clone officers in the entire Grand Army of the Republic. It’s the reason he was given a lucrative post when the GAR was refolded into the Empire. 

The days of war are behind them, and now CC-2224 trains the newly coined stormtroopers day in and day out. Nat-borns, in white armor. He hates how difficult they are to train, how petty and unlikable they all are. Some squads hate each other and nearly every officer would throw their comrades under Lord Vader’s boot for a chance to rise in their position.

Clone troopers were never like that. There were brothers, united in their cause, their loyalty to the Republic. They lost their Republic when the Jedi turned traitor and the Empire rose in its place. There is little left of them, the ones that survived the war. There were defective brothers, ones that refused the final order and tried to overthrow the Republic with their generals. They were few and they were put down. 

Some went crazy after a time, fine one day and stark raving mad the next, like something snapped in their system. Those were reconditioned. 

CC-2224 doesn’t want to be one of them. 

He takes a something to sleep the next night and it helps. The dreams don’t come. He feels muddled in this own mind, like he’s swimming through mud, but no one appears in his dreams.

Maybe it has passed, he thinks. A fleeting trauma, no more. He resolves to forget it, no matter how much it itches at his brain, idly rubbing at his temple from the burn. 

_Remember, remember_. 

—

He’s asleep and somewhere strange. The walls look similar to his quarters, to the Star Destroyer, but they’re not. They hum with a presence that he can’t place. The hallway is brighter than usual, and there are troopers coming and going but they’re brothers, with gold and white armor. 

They smile and salute ‘24 when they pass, so different from the new troopers who walk in straight lines and glare at one another from under their buckets. These men are familiar with each other, knocking shoulders and hip checking one another as they go, laughing. 

The familiarity is off putting.

‘24 looks down at himself and he’s in his old armor, his war regalia, just like the other men, gold and white. The entire thing is nicked, well cared for, bent and worn in places. The paint is chipped in areas, fresh in others like it was reapplied. Gone is his grey Imperial uniform.

There’s a helmet in his hands that matches his armor, white with a gold visor. He stares at it. 

“Commander,” one of the troopers stops to greet him. His voice is friendly and open, kind brown eyes and a bald head. He stops by ‘24’s shoulder, nudges him with a casual touch. There’s a smile on his face. “The General’s ready for us.”

‘24 blinks. “The General?” he repeats stupidly. There are no more Generals, not since the war. There are Grand Moffs, Admirals and Directors, but there are no Generals. No Jedi. 

The trooper cocks his head in confusion. “Still got your bell rung, sir? I thought you saw the meds yesterday for that. Maybe you should-“

“Ah, Commander,” a familiar voice calls down the hall. It’s the ghost again. He’s dressed the same as always, cream tunics and a long, brown robe. ‘24 knows without looking that there’s a silver cylinder clipped to his belt. It’s a weapon, a weapon that sings to him. A song that ‘24 can hear, bleeding at the edges with a soft hum. 

The man approaches them easily and claps a hand on his shoulder and he tries not to flinch. A ghost shouldn’t be able to touch. The point of contact on his arm is warm, comforting and familiar. It shouldn’t be. 

‘24 stares and it must show on his face because the ghost falters, his smile shuttering. Worry is brewing in his eyes and he squeezes the shoulder. “Are you alright Commander?” he asks, voice gone soft.

“Sir,” the trooper says at his other side, his expression serious. “Would you like me to com Helix?”

 _Helix_.

Something whites out in ‘24’s brain at the word, at the name, but troopers don’t have names, they have numbers. Who is Helix?

And why does he recognize it?

“I think that would be best, Waxer,” the ghost responds and ‘24’s headache bursts like a star. He pushes away from the ghost and the trooper with a gasp, hands clutching his head, the worried voices around him drowned out by the high pitched screeching in his head. 

_Waxer, Helix._ Who are they? Why can’t he remember? 

He wakes just as the pain in his head crescendos, damp with sweat and chest heaving. He barely makes it to the ‘fresher in time.

He shakes and retches, alone on the floor and wonders why he feels so empty.

—

He doesn’t mention the dreams to anyone. He gets up and puts on his grey uniform and reports to his post, like always. He doesn’t request anything to sleep because that will raise questions. Questions he can’t answer. And if anyone finds out, they’ll know he’s flawed and recondition him. He doesn’t want that. So he swallows it down, the sickening knowledge that something isn’t right, and doesn’t say a word. 

The dreams don’t stop. 

He dreams of everything, of the war, the Republic, the Empire, the front lines, the Senate, Naboo, Geonosis, Sarrish, Coruscant, and many places he doesn’t recognize. 

He dreams of clones, of brothers, of gold and white armor and sometimes blue. He dreams of battles, of quiet mornings, of strategy sessions, of the Imperial Academy.

But always, the ghost is there. 

The dreams are frequent, but fleeting. Hearing a name will snap him out of it, sometimes another language, a joke or an offhand comment. It’s as though his brain is trying to block something out and it pulls him out before it can break through.

It leaves him with headaches each time, and sometimes the pain is strong enough to lose his stomach when he wakes.

It feels like he’s dying.

— 

The room is somewhere he doesn’t recognize and it looks nothing like the Imperial barracks, or even his old GAR bunk. It’s an apartment with large windows over a bustling city, filled with dozens of plants of all sizes. 

There is a smell, a rich and spicy aroma, filtering in through a kitchen area where something must be cooking. It startles him because Imperial rations have no smell and little taste, but he can almost give the aroma a name. Caf is brewing, and tea, he knows instinctively. It’s not a practiced thought, but a regular conclusion. He knows this place, he realizes. 

The ghost appears in the doorway and ‘24 startles out of his thoughts. The man is dressed even more casually than usual and his auburn hair is swept back from his face. From his frequent observation, ‘24 knows he must be former military, or something similar. He carries himself with a gentle grace that could become deadly in an instant. His eyes are kind but watchful, alert. 

“Who are you?” he asks, like so many times before. He can never get an answer before he jerks awake but this dream feels different. Less translucent and almost hyper real. 

Like it’s a memory, and not a dream.

He swallows hard and tries to beat the thought back. It won’t budge, embedded in his mind and now that he’s entertained the idea, it’s taken root. 

“Who are you?” he demands again but the ghost just stares. 

“I can’t tell you that,” the man says and ‘24 wants to _scream_. “You have to remember.”

“I can’t,” he says. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” He grasps at the end of his hairline, where the burn is so persistent at his temple. It’s nearly unbearable. He wants to cut open his own brain, maybe then the pain will stop.

“ _Kote_ ,” the ghost says and ‘24 freezes, the word pinging something deep inside him. Something forgotten. He whirls on the man.

“What does that mean?” he demands, distantly aware of how shaky his voice is. His heart is pounding in his chest, the blood rushing through his ears and swallowing all the sound into white noise. The word isn’t Basic, it’s something foreign, something different. Something special. A hidden meaning that CC-2224 doesn’t understand but something does. Something remembers. _Remember, remember_.

“ _Kote_ ,” the ghost repeats. “It’s your name.” His voice is so soft and filled with a distant affection. No one talks to ‘24 like that. “It means glory.” 

“I don’t have a name,” he snaps, furious and terrified. He has a number, a designation, he’s CC-2224. He doesn’t have a name. He doesn’t _remember_. 

The ghost looks impossibly sad. Grief, he looks grieved, ‘24 realizes. Like CC-2224’s pain is his own. 

“You do,” the ghost says. “You all did.” And then the dream melts away again.

—

The memory changes things. Like a bur in his mind, it won’t go away. It burns and nags and tugs at him, demanding attention. 

And so he examines it, the idea. That maybe these are memories, not dreams. It makes him feel sick, but he pushes the feeling away. The headaches are a frequent companion now, and growing steadily worse. Thoughts are beginning to leak through, thoughts that feel traitorous. 

If the Empire knew, they’d eliminate him. Just like the rest. 

So ‘24 keeps his head down, and he investigates. 

He pulls files and erases his access history as he goes, carefully covering his tracks. It wouldn’t be possible for most, but CC-2224 has the highest clearance of any clone in Imperial service. There isn’t much on the history before the war, all evidence of the traitors to the Empire wiped clean. He can’t find anything with his access on any generals. 

Abandoning the Imperial files lead him to the holonet and deeper into the abyss. There is an abundance of information, but he can’t tell what is real or fictional without the Imperial lens. Frustrated, he thumbs through a reading on historical culture and languages, hoping to find something significant when one word jumps out from him on the page. 

_Vod_.

Something settles deep in his bones as he reads it aloud, a snap in his chest. ‘24’s eyes well with tears and he blinks through them to read.

_Vod: Brother, sister [Mando’a]_

He reads the words over and over again. _Mando’a,_ Mandalorian. Heart pounding, he quickly flips deeper until he finds what he’s looking for. Trembling fingers trace the words over and over again. 

_Kote: Glory [Mando’a]_

And everything, everything begins to snap into place. 

He doesn’t dream that night, but the next day his head beats so fiercely that he relents and visits the medbay. Their usual attendant isn’t there. This time it’s a clone, someone who shares Cody’s face but stares at him without recognition. He rarely sees his brothers anymore, and he avoids the medbay like the plague so he doesn’t know if the medic is a regular or on a rotation.

 _Vod_. 

“I’m having frequent migraines,” he says, careful to choose his words. He doesn’t mention the dreams. The memories.

The medic, CT-7322, frowns at him. It passes unspoken between them, that the migraines are a common symptom of clones that lost their minds. But it could be a number of reasons. After the initial tests turn up nothing, the medic recommends an atomic level brain scan. ‘24 consents to the procedure, watching the hypo pierce his skin and hoping he hasn’t just signed his own death certificate. 

CC-2224 goes under, but he isn’t the one that awakes after.

When he wakes, he remembers.

He blinks awake to the bright light of the medbay and lays still for a moment, reorienting himself. Something is different, like the center of gravity is off. His mind still feels muggy, but the fog is clearing. The headache is gone. 

“You’re awake,” the medic says beside him. He’s staring at him strangely. “We found the problem. There was a tumor. I removed it.” Something flickers in the back of his mind, recognition. ‘24 stares at the medic and his mind clears. “It shouldn’t cause you any more trouble.”

Gold and white. _Vod._

“Helix,” he rasps and the other clone goes rigid. He stares back at him with wide eyes. 

“What?” Helix whispers. “What did you say?”

‘24 clears his throat, emotion trying to close his airway and his heart squeezing in his chest.

He remembers. 

“Your name is Helix,” he says because he knows that now. Knows it like the back of his hand, like the halls of the _Negotiator_ and the dips and curves of his own armor. Knows it like his own name. Remembers the years they served together, the days and nights in the medbay watching over injured brothers, wrangling their general in for treatment when he insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“Cody,” Helix whispers back at him, voice fraught with the same emotion. He reaches a hand down and finds one to hold, grasping fingers with a desperate intensity. “Your name is Cody.”

And Cody finally breaks. 

— 

The next few days are spent filtering through his memories, now that the blinkers are off. His mind is his own again, along with the knowledge of everything he’s done. He turns the dreams over and over in his mind, his whole heart shuttering when he thinks of the ghost, of his General. Of Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan, who he ordered dead on Utapau. Obi-Wan, who kept reappearing in his dreams. Obi-Wan. He says the name over and over again, whispers it to himself in his dark quarters, bent over a holopad. Burns the name into the back of his brain so he can never forget it again. His General, who he would have willingly laid down his own life to protect. He fired on him, ordered him dead, and forgot him. 

He can't lose that again. 

Cody combs back through the files, reads the records of so many dead Jedi, so many dead, even the children. The knowledge of the massacre at the Temple is a deep ache in his chest. The slaughter that took place in those hallowed halls, carried out by his own brothers, by Rex’s men. He refuses to turn away from the details. Subjecting himself to the horrific knowledge is his own punishment to bear for the part he’s played in this, he decides. He deserves it. For nights on end, he rakes through the datapads, looking for any hints, any clues of the one man he’s missing. 

Because for all its efforts, the Empire has no confirmed kill record for General Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

— 

Cody and Helix talk in private as much as possible, in quiet, hushed tones. About the tumor that wasn’t a tumor but a chip, a control chip. Remembers Fives’ death and Rex’s grief, his own disbelief that there was any conspiracy at all and his own foolishness. 

Some of the chips have degraded over time, just like his own was beginning to. They’re organic, afterall. Helix’s chip, in comparison, is nearly obsolete. The sound of his own name brought him around. He tells Cody he’s going to have it removed and disappears for a few days. 

There’s a scar on Cody’s temple now, raised and white. It’s hidden under his hairline where the other instructors can’t see. It’s a blessing that the Empire doesn’t care enough about him to notice. Had he been with his brothers, someone would have noticed immediately. But the Imperials hate him, hate clones indiscriminately, so they avoid him and they don’t notice. 

At night, when his duties are done for the day and no one can see, he pushes back the black curls and stares at the scar. Traces his fingers over it, a physical reminder. 

He doesn’t dream again. 

Helix returns, a bit more wane and white than before with his own scar and memories. He spends a night in Cody’s quarters, shaking with remembered knowledge and grief. Cody, who has suffered through the same thing alone, tucks his brother against his shoulder and just holds on. 

—

There’s no escaping the Empire, not yet, so he waits. And remembers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cody and the 212th in the Kenobi series say what


End file.
